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" "It is past," rejoined Lady Trafford, recovering herself by a powerful effort; "but never allude to the circumstance again. The hand which the man had been holding hung limp and nerveless at her side. E. God bless you, Auntie! I'll go into the mills and make pulp with my bare hands, if you want me to. It was apparent, and then it faded into the quality of an inevitable necessity. "After him," cried Wild; "he mustn't escape. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. The size and grandeur of the edifice, indeed, drew down the ridicule of several of the wits of the age: by one of whom—the facetious Tom Brown—it was said, "Bedlam is a pleasant place, and abounds with amusements; —the first of which is the building, so stately a fabric for persons wholly insensible of the beauty and use of it: the outside being a perfect mockery of the inside, and admitting of two amusing queries,—Whether the persons that ordered the building of it, or those that inhabit it, were the maddest? and, whether the name and thing be not as disagreeable as harp and harrow. Easily. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him.

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